


Mist Walker

by Laylah



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, Teamwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is at least one other prisoner in this wing who's fit enough to make a decent showing in the arena. But the guards stop at her cell door, and Drace rises to meet them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mist Walker

There's a change in the air on days when the arena's open. It sounds superstitious to say it, but Drace has never known a soldier who wasn't superstitious in one way or another, and she'll take this one. It gives her fair warning. She's likely to get out of her cell today, and she should be ready for a fight.

She's stretching when she hears footsteps in the hall, the clink of Rozarrian mail. They could still be coming for someone else; there is at least one other prisoner in this wing who's fit enough to make a decent showing in the arena. But the guards stop at her cell door, and Drace rises to meet them.

"Hands out," the first one says. There's nothing melodic, Drace thinks, about the Rozarrian tongue. She raises her hands for the shackles.

"Do I fight alone?" she asks, as she steps out of the cell. Once, three battles ago, she fought beside Zargabaath, the two of them facing off against a diresaur with daggers and round shields. It was one of the more exhilarating fights she's been in since they were taken captive; she misses fighting with allies.

"You'll see," the guard says. Drace can't see his eyes through the mask of his half-helm, only the curve of his smirk. "Worried about your boys?"

Drace keeps her head high and doesn't answer. She does not _worry_ about them. Despite any indignity Rozarria can visit on them, they are the Judges Magister, and they will not be defeated.

She is still not prepared for the way her heart leaps in her chest when they approach the staging area for the battles and she sees Gabranth being led in from the other side. He looks thinner than he used to, as she assumes she does as well -- but he does not bow his head, and he does not stumble.

One of the soldiers behind her pushes Drace when she reaches the door to the staging room, so that she staggers. It scalds her pride, and yet she cannot hold to the anger: Ghis, Bergan, and Zargabaath all wait for them inside, already at work on unlatching their own shackles.

"Your honors," Gabranth says, when the door closes behind them. His voice has more gravel to it than Drace remembers.

Ghis inclines his head, smiling wryly. "How have the mighty fallen," he says.

"Say nothing of the kind," Bergan growls. "We have none of us fallen. Where is your pride?"

"I had wondered," Ghis says. He looks weathered, the lines around his eyes more pronounced, the humor in his expression more bitter. "But it seems you have had care of it all this time. Would you have me hope?"

"I would have you _fight_," Bergan retorts.

"Bergan is right," Zargabaath says. He steps up to Drace to press the catch that will release her shackles. "If we are to escape, then there is no better time than now, when we are all together."

"Have you a plan?" Gabranth asks. Drace turns to him to free his hands likewise. There is a new scar running the length of his left forearm. None of them is accustomed to fighting without plate.

"Not yet," Zargabaath admits.

"It will not be easy," Drace says. "Any foe they think deadly enough to defeat all of us together will be taxing indeed."

Bergan spits. "Still hesitating!" he says. "If Zecht were with me --"

"If Zecht had not _betrayed us_, you mean," Drace interrupts.

"You do not know he did," Bergan answers, and Drace draws a breath to argue -- who else could have tripped them so neatly into the trap? -- but before she can say so she is cut off.

"Silence," Ghis commands. "Both of you." It is no comfort to Drace to see Bergan turn on Ghis with his face a mirror of the same pride and anger that she feels -- but it _is_ a balm, of a sort, to see the steel returned to Ghis's posture, to his mien. "It will not be easy, but we _will_ take this chance. We will find our opportunity."

"The paling around the arena," Gabranth says. "No paling is flawless. If we can strike it in the moment it weakens --"

"Can you find that moment?" Zargabaath asks. If any of them can, it is Gabranth; he claims that his skill with the Mist has naught to do with his heritage, but Landis is a province of Jagd and wilderness, and Drace suspects she is not the only one who disbelieves him.

"With my wits about me," Gabranth says.

Ghis nods. "Keep him clear-headed, then," he says to Drace. On the other side of the main arena gate, people are cheering: the preliminary rounds, animals in combat with each other, must be finishing now. They have no time for more strategy. "In all else, we fight as we always have, and wait for Gabranth's signal."

Bergan bares his teeth as though the battle-lust is already on him, and for once Drace cannot fault him that. Together they can fight their way free of this pit.

The main gate creaks and rattles, rising before them, and they squint into the light. There is blood on the arena sand, but the carcass of the unlucky beast has been dragged away. Shining in a row on the packed sand are their weapons -- _their_ weapons, not the inadequate things they've been given for previous bouts.

"A mighty foe indeed," Zargabaath murmurs.

"No fear," Ghis demands. They hold their heads high and walk out onto the arena floor. Their stride is the measured, heavy tread that shows the full terrible splendor of the Judges, armored and cloaked and helmed; their bodies remember it even if their armor has been stripped from them long since. The stands are full to capacity; it is a feast day in Rozarria, it seems.

Ghis stoops to retrieve his weapons first, and the rest of them follow. He has always acted as their leader, not only because he is senior among them but because he is least likely to stand for another's command. In diplomacy it is sometimes a burden, but in battle it is ever an aid. He steps forward with Bergan and Gabranth flanking him, and Drace turns her attention inward, seeking the focus and strength to cast magicks with which she is long out of practice. They will likely need --

The arena ground shakes with the force of an impact to the far door. Men are screaming by the beast pits. Drace feels the thrill of combat humming along her limbs, and prays it will be enough, when she has been unable to fight with her own maces in -- gods, it must be months by now.

When the gate finally rattles open at the far end of the arena, she hears Zargabaath curse, and she'd bet he's not the only one. The wyrm forcing its way out onto the floor is so huge its great shoulders scarcely fit through the gate, and the limiting rings around its throat and limbs blaze bright with power. Even rested, well-fed, and properly armored, Drace would not seek a battle with the likes of that monster -- though she can imagine Zecht goading Bergan into it, back in brighter days.

The wyrm lumbers toward them, and thought flees as her combat reflexes take over. The keys for Protectga rise to her lips, and before she's even finished casting the spell she can feel the blue clarity of Haste settle over her mind, and then the bright shimmer of Shell. She looks up in time to see Ghis cast his second spell, to see the nimbus of red encircle Bergan as he swings his blade. From here she can't see the expression on his face, but Drace knows full well the way he bares his teeth when Berserk takes him.

They close with the wyrm fearlessly, and the noise of the crowd becomes a distant thing, like the roar of the sea, meaningless. The wyrm lashes out with the claws of one monstrous forelimb, and Gabranth turns the blow with his left-hand blade, but he staggers from the effort. None of them are accustomed to having so little armor, not against a foe like this -- the wyrm is a castle-destroyer, a living siege engine. They range themselves as near as they dare and strike, and strike again. Zargabaath's Dark boils up from the sand, lashing at the beast's legs. The shock of impact hums up Drace's arms the first time she connects, but she cannot tell if she has done any real damage. Closer, she needs to get closer, in behind its foreleg where she can aim her blows at the joint of its elbow.

It's not long enough, not long at all, before she feels the first rush of curative magicks roll across the arena. She's barely even hurt, but if the wyrm has done that much damage to Bergan so fast, or gods forbid to Gabranth --

The wyrm rears up on its hind legs, roaring, and turns like that to come crashing down facing Drace. She loses her footing when it lands, the ground shaking beneath her, and she rolls away -- but not quickly enough, not as she should, and the wyrm's claws catch at her back, open bright burning lines of agony there.

Drace does not try to stifle the cry of pain: that is worthless pride, that would make her comrades slower to aid her. And indeed, the Curaga comes before she has finished staggering to her feet -- not from Zargabaath this time but from Gabranth. Drace would admonish him if she could spare the breath. He should save his strength, if he's to spearhead the attack on the paling.

Ghis, of all people, draws the wyrm's attention away from her, near enough to aim a raking blow at its face. It tosses its head, bellowing, and Drace steps into the opening Ghis provides, swinging toward the hard line of the beast's jaw. Are they doing it any real harm, she wonders? Or do they only madden it with pain?

"Fall back," Ghis calls to her, pointing with his fan. Toward the beast-side entrance. Drace nods, and jogs in that direction. Zargabaath is moving, too, and Gabranth is circling around the beast from the other side, barely fast enough to avoid the sweep of its tail. Bergan still has the fury on him, but when the wyrm turns toward the gate to chase its quarry, he follows, too. The gate is open, beyond the shimmer of the paling, beckoning dark. Even once they make it there, they'll have far to go, but --

The air cracks and splits with a low resonant sound that Drace feels in her bones. She looks up, sees Gabranth's eyes closed, light gathering around his hands so bright she can scarce look at him before he shapes it, turns it not toward the shadow of the wyrm but into the paling itself. The arena floor rocks with the impact, and Drace tries to gather her strength -- they will all need to release their quickenings for this -- as Bergan raises his hands to the sky next. He pulls down the storm, draws lightning to his call and sends it crackling and screaming into the dark. She will take hers next, Drace knows, her feet planted solidly as she pushes her need through the earth before her. The ground rumbles, heaves with anger.

"Sunder," Drace commands, and the ground -- or its image -- buckles, spikes of bare rock driving upward into the weak spot there. Drace sags, gasping for breath, trying to hold herself open to the Mist now -- she's never liked that feeling -- as Zargabaath takes the center of the vortex for himself. The volcano he summons follows her earthquake well, fire and stone splashing up brilliant orange and liquid. Next should be Zecht's torrent, were he here -- without him it falls to Ghis, turning darkness on their target in lashing, writhing tendrils, his eyes focused, his mouth hard.

Gabranth has found the energy from somewhere to finish it; his hands sweep a broad circle before him, summoning spears of ice that range themselves about him in a radiant crown. He pushes, and they drive forward, splintering the fabric of the paling. There is no time after that, even could Drace summon the energy, to continue -- the heavens part and their gathered strength takes Mist-driven form, a tidal wave crashing down over paling-flicker and wyrm-shadow alike.

The brightness and the heat of the arena come rushing back to them as the Mist dissipates. "_Go_," Ghis roars, still a battlefield commander after all. The crowd's cheers falter as the wyrm shakes free a broken limiting ring from its foreleg, then turn to screams as it gathers itself and springs up into the stands.

They do not pause to watch, though Drace doubts she is the only one gladdened by the thought of Rozarria's gentry, come to savor their blood sport, now fleeing as their own blood must be paid. Inside the holding pen it's dark, and they slow for a moment, but not long -- the rage is still on Bergan, and when he catches sight of movement in the dimness he starts toward it. The others follow to support him, and the Rozarrian guards are ill-prepared to meet their onslaught.

Even now, reduced to this, the Judges Magister are a force in their own right. Drace can taste the lingering sharpness of Mist at the back of her tongue.

"Hurry," Zargabaath says, as the rage fades at last. "They will seal the gates as soon as they can spare a thought for us."

The doorway where the guards waited is too small by far to accommodate the beasts brought in for the arena's sport. A maintenance passageway, perhaps; a route for the handlers to come and go without unbarring the holding pen's great doors. Drace turns right at the same moment Bergan does, and the others follow their lead; years of experience have taught them when to trust each other's instincts. If ever the two of them agree, Drace can still remember Zecht saying, then there can be no doubt that their position is unassailable.

The walls shake as they jog down the corridor; the wyrm, perhaps, or airships brought in to quell it. Archadia's shipbuilding technology has been superior of late, but Rozarria must certainly have the firepower to tame the beast. There is a stitch growing in Drace's side, and she tries to calm her breathing, to measure it as the corridor slopes upward. They must be near to the end of this maze by now.

"Be ready," Ghis says, when they reach the corridor's dead end, a door bolted from their side. "They will have soldiers on duty."

"What are soldiers to us now?" Bergan retorts, but Drace summons the strength to re-cast their protection anyway. They are none of them in such good condition as to afford damage they can avoid.

Ghis throws the bolt and pulls the door open, and the air crackles with Zargabaath's Thundaga before the soldiers can even turn to see who's there. It's an ugly spell for a man in armor, and the air stinks of burning flesh as Bergan and Gabranth step forward to finish the job.

The soldiers fall quickly, and then they are outside, armed and for the moment free, the prison and the arena behind them. Beyond the alley where they now stand, the wide streets of the Ambervale throng with people. Drace cannot tell at first glance if the chaos is of a festival or of panic.

"Where now?" she asks.

"The aerodrome," Zargabaath says. Ghis nods. It makes sense. Lacking stones for a gate crystal, they have few other options to flee.

"Quickly,'" Gabranth says. "We can't have much time."

They keep to the back streets as best they can, though even still they draw attention. Should they fail to escape the city now, Rozarria's soldiers will have little trouble tracking them down.

The Ambervale's aerodrome is separated from the city herself by the wide expanse of the river; the bridge that leads across is wide and exposed, but they have no choice. They will simply have to sprint, and pray that their strength carries them that far, that they can heal fast enough should the guard --

Only an airship swoops down, engines howling, before they've even made it halfway. They fan out, trying to scatter, before the gunner can take aim, and Drace can feel her heart hammering in her chest -- but the airship opens a hatch, not a gunnery bay, along its near side. "I knew you'd make it worth my while to come all the way out here for this," says a familiar voice from the ship's broadcast system.

Drace stares. _Zecht?_

"What took you so long?" Bergan demands, already climbing onto the rail of the bridge. The others are not far behind.

"We've had problems at home, too," Zecht says. "I'll fill you in on the way. Hurry!"

There are too many questions she still has for him, too much trust destroyed, but there are soldiers running their way, and there will be ships soon enough. Drace boosts herself up onto the rail, waiting until Zargabaath has caught his balance and cleared the hatch before she follows suit. If they make it back to Archades --

No. _When_ they make it back to Archades, they will raise an army fit to repay House Margrace for every second of their suffering.


End file.
